Friday, 7 October 2016

The Flying Rabbits of Tumumoa

By
Alfred B. Mittington, Soc. Zoo. Br.

[First published in the Peterloo Review, Wellington (NZ), 18 June 1954.]

Far from me, dear reader, to criticise
the native rites and customs of small exotic tribes. Such cultural arrogance is
no longer of the age. And for one like myself, who has always been an ardent
defender of the Blantun Indians of the inner Brazils, to do so is nearly unthinkable.
Nevertheless, I admit I was truly stunned, not to say incensed, to hear
of the ritual of Rabbit Throwing that regularly occurs on Tumumoa, the smallest
of the inhabited islands of the New Zealand archipelago. And I frankly confess to
mad fury on learning that the New Zealand government of Mr Patty O’Couvart
refuses to interfere with this despicable practice, on the hollow grounds that
it is not a blood sport, that it is good for pension-plans, and that it is –
take care now! - an ‘ancient tradition’, because it got started as long ago as
1856, A.D. (which tells you what counts as archaic in these Fresh Upstart
Nations Down Under!)

What is the
truth which the O’Couvart administration refuses to acknowledge? Rabbit
throwing, for all its hallowed significance within Tumumoan religion, is the cruellest
of practices. If it only involved a single rabbit, the conscientious person
might still take a deep breath and swallow his rightful indignation. But
no....!! Whole runs of rabbits are being subjected to this harmful and
humiliating operation, hurled around by the dozens at the ceremonial victims,
by massive crowds of elated, and often intoxicated, participants!

What is more:
Rabbit throwing is of recent invention, and therefore cannot even claim
to be vindicated by age. And worse of all: this nauseating ritual is not at all
native to Tumumoa, but is, on the contrary, a cultural contamination of Western
origins. It may have turned into a local fertility rite, but it isn’t Melanesian
at all. And even if it were, would that justify the thoughtless, pitiless
tossing of dozens of life bunnies at a ceremoniously dressed man and woman, folks
who themselves often come away with scratches, blue spots and extremely soiled
costumes for which they have paid dear money? I dare say it would not! And were
circumstances only slightly different, I would here, on this very page,
admonish the O’Couvart government to crack down ruthlessly on this practice and
force the native Tumumoans to replace the life rabbits with some other (inanimate)
symbol of fertility. Would, I say - but will not. For here lays
the whole problem: the rabbits already ARE a replacement! And the recent history
of the rite makes one shudder at the thought of proposing yet another substitute.
Far from improving matters, every cure has so far proven to be considerably worse
than the original disease. And one loathes to continue the trend.

The reception of the Graydons on Tumumoa

The
roots of Rabbit Throwing lie in the days soon after the Christianisation of
this corner of Melanesia in the mid 1850s by the Graydon family; a set of
missionaries, originally in the service of the British & Foreign Bible
Society, who came to Tumumoa when kicked out of Gibraltar for social misbehaviour.
Lieutenant James Newenham Graydon, their Patriarch, was an extremely zealous
evangelist and – let us call a spade a spade - a total nutcase. He was ‘as
insane as a man who sets his house on fire in order to warm his hands,’ as one
of his former colleagues in Spain described him. If we may believe their shipping bill,
which has miraculously survived, the Graydons had the weirdest notions about
the place where they were headed. Their luggage contained – and here I only
quote the more intelligible items – a 60 foot fold-up Tabernacle, 20
copies of A Pilgrim’s Progress, 5,000
pairs of ‘Baboon Pantaloons’, 14 enemas ‘for personal use’ and 1,000 copies of
the New Testament in Manchu-Tatar. The presence of the latter lot may perhaps
be explained by the misconception current at the time that Melanesians
originated in the southern Chinese province of Canton (a theory convincingly discredited
of late by Dr Heyerdahl’s Kon-Tiki expedition). But the Baboon trousers are
truly inexplicable, unless there be a connection, as has been suggested, with
the accusation of ‘animal mistreatment’ which caused the Graydon’s exile from the
Gibraltar Rock.

However
that may be, the Graydons sailed in, they landed, and set up shop. And the very
next day trouble started. It just so happened that the morning after their
arrival, they were invited to attend the wedding ceremony between the chief’s 23rd
daughter, Minoabubu, and a young Tumumoan called Taupotini. During that festival,
certain fertility rites were performed which were meant to guarantee the newly
wed couple ample progeny. We do not know exactly of what those fertility rites consisted,
but they were guaranteed to be terribly shocking to a Victorian pastor. There
may have been some masturbation. Perhaps there was a bit of public fornication.
We cannot tell from the prudish descriptions which Mrs Mabel Graydon entrusted
to her diary (what is one to make of her mentioning ‘horrid regular movements’
and ‘lascivious exposure of linguistic body parts?’ – for all one knows, the
dumb brutes only chewed some cassava-roots in an impolite manner!)

Minoabubu and Taupotini on their wedding day

Nowadays
we would shrug our shoulders over such things, mumble something about cultural
relativism, and find ourselves a keyhole to peep through. Not so our upright
Victorians! They were still convinced that God had sent them over to the
darkies to teach them Civilisation, to wit: chastity, Sunday prayer, baboon
pantaloons and plenty of enemas. So Lieutenant Graydon immediately set to work.
It took him a week to convince Chief Ububaonim that what went on during the
local marriage celebrations was Terribly Wrong in the Eyes of Our Maker (he
might have succeeded a little quicker, but it ain’t easy to explain in
Manchu-Tatar what Sin is to a savage who is unaware of the concept.) Ububaonim,
at first, gently parried the objections.

‘On
weddings no hubahubaaloha,’ the cordial old chief
replied, ‘then no little papoosoas. No little papoosoas – then no
taxpayers. Bad for spouses. Bad for government. And incidentally: calamitous for
national pension plan. Whole of the demographic pyramid topsy-turvy. That not
how Kutahkutah ordained Mamoa of Universe. So sorry. Can’t be helped..’

‘But
it CAN be helped!!’ Lieutenant Graydon exclaimed frenziedly as he jumped
to his feet. ‘With the help of the Lord we will find an alternative!’

In
only three 12-hours prayer-sessions of the collected Graydon clan, an
alternative was indeed discovered. And it surely says something that the bright
idea originated with young Matthew Graydon, the 11-year old Benjamin of the
family. The alternative was rice. Throw rice at the newly-weds. That,
after all, was an old, hallowed Anglo-Saxon tradition, perfectly sanctioned by
the British churches, which, as young Matthew had learned in school just before
sailing to the antipodes, likewise conveyed the ritual desire for the young
couple to go and multiply profusely in Biblical obedience.

Next day
Lieutenant Graydon hauled one of the family’s 80-pound bags of dried rice to
the village fatafafa and went to see Ububaonim. He argued vehemently and
at length. He explained that rice was far stronger a talisman than hubahuba
aloha. Just look at how plentiful the Englishmen were on the face of the
earth! At least as many as all the fingers and toes of all the Tumumoans put
together! There were so many, in fact, that they had to get away from their own
island, and come in their canoes to other archipelagos, like Tumumoa. And look
at Tamaʻitaʻi Mabel, how she had born
him 11 healthy children! All because of Rice, your Majesty! – Because of Rain
Showers of Rice on our wedding day!

Ububaonim
considered the arguments coolly. To tell the truth, he was not much impressed
with the Englishman’s dialectics. He was even a little taken aback to learn
that these whiteys from across the waters still did not realize that papoosoas
were a result of huba huba, not from some funny fooling around with
staple foodstuffs. But - and this is essential now - Ububaonim was a deeply
devout man, to whom the laws of hospitality were sacrosanct. He wanted nothing
more than to please these poor guests of his, who had had to flee their own
overpopulated native island and live out their sorry lives far away from the
blessing of home and family. So he shrugged his shoulders, rattled his kuris,
and spoke: ‘Can give it try. Progress innovation. You happy I happy.’

'The Rice Wedding (by young Miss Abigail Graydon)

And
so it was ordained. During the next wedding that took place on Tumumoa, the
newly weds were duly bombarded with shovelfuls of dry rice, thrown at them from
the side-lines as they chastely marched out of the Marae arm in arm (young
Matthew Graydon had had a splendid time explaining to the natives how the thing
was done). The Graydon family gave solemn thanks to the Lord Our God for
inspiring good king Ububaonim with Divine Wisdom. And the huba huba aloha
took place, discreetly so as not to disturb the honourable white exiles, during
the stag nights and hen parties celebrated the night after the wedding
ceremony in a remote spot on the upper skirts of the volcano. A new tradition
was born. Everybody happy.

Except
that Tumumoa is a dry island. And that rice will not grow in its arid, saline
soil...

The
Tumumoans are a marrying kind of people. They harbour a solid belief in the
Family as the corner log of society. The next three months saw at least three
dozen wedding celebrations; and by early September the Graydons’ supply of
dried rice had run out. What to do? When consulted, that horrid King Ububaonim turned
outright hostile! ‘Ways of ancestors not so bad, huh?’ he spoke savagely at
Lieutenant Graydon, who was squatted humbly at his feet. ‘Rice limited
resource. Runs out. Huba huba does not. Well – unless all wives get moon
in head same night… Has happened to me. Embarrasing.’ And then, scratching
himself under his orchid-crown, he said: ‘Better regress to old tradition.
Avoid social conflict. And long walks to volcano.’

The horrid barbarian chief Ububaonim

Lieutenant
Graydon was dumbstruck – and not only by the threat of being hurled into the
infernal crater by way of human sacrifice, which this savage pagan had just voiced
– but even more by the abhorrent thought of the Lord’s Work being Undone. He
pleaded, first, loudly, to the Lord in Heaven, then, vehemently, with this
royal servant of Moloch. He shouted, he sang hymns, he quoted Scripture, he
rolled frenzied in the dirt of the floor. After roughly 10 minutes of this,
Ububaonim, beginning to fear for his guest’s heart and mental health, gave in.
‘Alright! Accept! Calm down dorsal spine. Will compromise!’ he exclaimed,
wildly waving his ostrich-feather fly-waif at the man to give him some cool
air. ‘Go. Wash brain drain again. Renew innovation. Make proposal.’ And, as the
grateful missionary slumped exhausted to the floor, the old king mumbled to
himself: ‘See what comes from too much self-huba!’

What
more, dear reader? I’m sure you can guess it. After lengthy Prayer Meetings,
the Graydons did come up with a fresh solution. Mustard-seed! – the Biblical allegory
for quick promulgation; of which, as luck would have it, they had three sturdy
bags in their pantry. The proposal was accepted, and to the missionaries’ endless
joy, mustard seed caught on well in the rich volcanic soil of the island. It
seemed that the Divine Solution had been found at last. But then the brides and
bride’s maids of Tumumoa filed a complaint with the chief. Them tiny little mustard
seeds got into their hula-skirts and itched them to madness all through the
ceremony and the party afterwards. You couldn’t get rid of them. Not by
shaking, not by scratching, not by bathing. You found them for days afterwards
in your rongorongo. So, they suggested, couldn’t they just, you know, go
naked during the weddings? Also saved them having to go change for the
post-nuptials up on the volcano. Ububaonim, a healthy fellow for his 67
summers, was not unsympathetic to the idea. ‘If you cannot climb the mountain
you may still look up its skirts, eh?’ he winked thickly at the lieutenant. But
the Graydons, of course, were scandalised (particularly Mabel who still
harboured hopes of putting her Baboon Pantaloons to some good use before long).
They sang hymns – they went into raptures – they threw their spectacles on the
ground and stomped them to pieces, they….

The Tumumoa bridesmaids on strike

In short: by
February of the next year an attempt was made with gulls’ eggs. Eggs were a typical
fertility symbol as well, as young Matthew remembered from an article on Easter
customs. But unfortunately thrown eggs make an awful mess and the mighty stag-parties
turned into terrible stick-parties, which really wrecked the fun. Then
somebody, with a nice Freudian touch avant la lettre, proposed coconuts.
Three wedding-guests and the happily married couple itself had to be hospitalized
because of the experiment, so the idea was immediately abandoned. Next,
thoughtlessly, the newly-weds and their attendants were showered with chemical
fertiliser. It caused an awful skin rash in everyone, and the bridesmaids let
it be known they’d rather to go back to the mustard seeds, rongaronga
trouble or not, than subject themselves any longer to this chemical warfare!
And then, at long last, somebody noticed the rabbits of the island. The
rabbits, which bred like, well…. rabbits. The rabbits, fertility totem par
excellence, who knew better than any other animal how to go about a good
bit of huba huba aloha. They were soft, there were many, you could swing
them by the ears and – last but not least – the touch of their soft fur on your
naked skin had a most enjoyable titillating effect on the whole of the
company….

The
first fertility rabbit sailed through the Tumumoan air on March 15th
1856 during the marriage of Kanathea and Opari. It was thrown by the bride’s
father Aehtanak, and landed smack in the middle of Opari’s face (not wholly coincidentally,
by the looks of it; due to some obscure old dispute over spliced mango-trees, Aehtanak
couldn’t stand the sight of his new son-in-law). Other than that, however, all
of the celebrants were mighty pleased with the new projectiles. The rabbits
caused no brain damage, they did not get into your skirt, they uttered most
cheerful little shrieks as they came sailing through the air, and the ones that
died in the process could be roasted on the spot for the subsequent
wedding-feast.

This
then reader, is the wholly modern and Western origin of Rabbit Throwing, that
cruel blood sport masquerading as a traditional Melanesian rite. There is
nothing ancient in it. There is nothing hallowed to it. It does not root in
venerable Tumumoan religion or the profound philosophical concepts of the Noble
Savage. It is purely the result of warped missionary brains and the dry saline
soil of Tumumoa. And I say that it is high time to put a stop to the very very
very sick practice! Ever since March 1856, nearly a hundred years ago now, this
shameful superstition has been continued, in ever higher frequency and ever
growing numbers. Nowadays, rabbits are being deliberately bred for the purpose.
A special species has been developed over the years, one of good flyers and
slow runners with exceptionally lengthy ears. Some of these poor animals are
subjected to this painful and humiliating experience three, four, yes,
sometimes even FIVE times before they succumb and get turned into spare ribs.
And only the faulty reasoning, and the blind slothfulness of the O’Couvart
government stands in the way of calling a halt to a practice which is an
abominable blot on the reputation of the whole southern hemisphere! Shame on
you, Patrick O’Couvart, you Judas Iscariot of neo-colonialism! SHAME!

Postscript
on the further missionary activities on Tumumoa

Despite a promising start, the Tumumoa
mission ultimately ended in failure. Initopuat , the first-born son of
Minoabubu and Taupotini (the couple of the first wedding), became one of
Graydon’s most devout converts, and eventually rose to be the first Episcopal
bishop of the island. Yet even this could not guarantee the continued success
of Christianity. The natives simply refused to come over. The main bone of
contention turned out to be Tumumoan baptism customs. The natives were in the
habit – as the reader surely has noticed from the above - of naming children
after their father, but with the names written in reverse so as to keep the
generations apart. Much as they tried, the upright and over-sensitive British
missionaries could not accustom themselves to the Tumumoan faithful innocently
applying the same principle to the Son of God. Perhaps it smacked too
much of animal worship, golden calves and the Egyptian deity Anubis. A feeble
attempt was made to explain to them that the True Name of the Lord was Jehova –
but as bad luck would have it, in Tumumoan the word ‘Avohei’ signifies ‘eating avocado
bread with your uncle’s daughter’, one of the gravest and most intolerable taboos
on the island. The Tumumoans were scandalised and lapidated several of the
preachers with coconuts. Missionary activity on Tumumoa ceased in the 1890s. Rabbit
Throwing, however, persisted.

Note
from the editor

The publication of the above J’Accuse
had some unforeseen side-effects, insofar as it helped to topple the O’Couvart
government. The outcry caused by Mittington’s revelations of modern Tumumoan
marriage-rites was immense. These being days of animal lovers, Bugs Bunny and Christian
vegetarianism, animal protection societies all over the globe picked up the hue
and cry. New Zealand got vilified in churchyards, schoolrooms and community
centres the world over. By early 1955, the O’Couvart government could no longer
dodge the issue. Patty O’Couvart, however, was a proud politician and he
refused to ‘cave in to this Mittington maniac’. Consequently, far from
interfering with the practice out of concerns for animal wellfare, the
government decided to play the ‘conservationist’ card. Rabbits were declared a
protected species, and under that banner Rabbit Throwing was forcibly discontinued.
Within two years, the rabbit population in New Zealand baby-boomed from an
estimated 150,000 individuals to 20,000,000. Agricultural produce plummeted 43
%. Farmers staged sit-ins and let loose thousands of rabbits inside the
Agricultural Ministry and Wellington City Hall. On 16 August 1955, the O’Couvart
government resigned. For unexplained reasons, present-day Tumumoans throw satellite-disks
at newly-wed couples; and rabbits are now being fought with industrial poison
and special, laboratory-prepared strands of myxomatosis.